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“I used to be so well-behaved.” she said, rolling down the passenger window and lighting a cigarette, her odd-socked feet resting on my dashboard.
One of my favorite cases as a support worker was a 40-year-old lady who had sustained a brain injury a few years prior to us meeting.
Our weekly visits were to check her house was in order — it always was — and to take her to the supermarket.
“My kids love the new me…” she laughed, “Or they’re too afraid to talk back.”
Damage to several areas of her brain, including the frontal lobe, had meant a long spell in rehabilitation. But she’d recovered with almost flying colors. Having a brain injury meant she’d never legally be able to drive a car again, but she seemed to like the company anyway.
In her own words, she hadn’t just recovered. She was even better. In her past life she was meek, pure-mouthed, rule-abiding and a committed perfectionist. Now she didn’t give a shit what anyone thought, including me. A full-time mother of three, I remember the first time she greeted me at her door.
“Ignore the fucking mess, my family are animals.”
